


Speed of Drums

by theprydonian_archivist



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-01
Updated: 2008-03-01
Packaged: 2018-07-15 01:14:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7199483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theprydonian_archivist/pseuds/theprydonian_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You both have drums, but they beat at different speeds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Speed of Drums

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Prydonian](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Prydonian). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [The Prydonian collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/theprydonian/profile).

He’s on the top of the hills, but you’re wary.

Because rushing would seem like you’re expecting something (because you never rush, not really) and that won’t do.

But dawdling, yes, he frowns upon. It’s high speed, march and onwards.

_\- ‘He marches to the beat of his own drum,’ say the professors, and you nod and smile and say ‘yes he does.’ -_

They don’t know that, not really.

He’s on top of the hills and you’re down here because going up at high speed is your wont, and that simply won’t do, and dawdling is just as good, and just as frowned upon.

You won’t walk briskly. It’s too much like marching.

You can’t march.

You’re physically in _capable_ of marching.

Not without a drummer. Not without him beside you, tapping that rhythm on your back, the soothing one that he remembers off by heart but doesn’t recall where he heard it. _Da da da dum._

__

\- ‘He’s disruptive in class,’ say the professors, and you slant your eyes sideways and wait for them to say the same of you. ‘Always that same disruptive rhythm.’ Your eyes are wide, and they don’t realise but all you say is ‘yes, I know’ and run to the hill. -

You fell asleep one night with that tap on your back, over and over again, melting the muscles and relaxing them before you could stop yourself getting drowsy.

You woke up cold and alone because he was gone in a huff upset that you’d fallen asleep on him.

He wouldn’t speak to you the next morning.

But _they_ don’t know that, not really.

~*~

He’s at the bottom of the hill below, but you’re wary.

 _Not wary_ , you tell yourself. _Patient. You’re patient. He will come to you._

So you sit on the grass and look out to the Death Zone because anything has to be better than being blinded by _his_ hair. 

It’s not that you can’t look away.

It’s not.

You just choose not to.

You would walk down that hill to him, but that would seem like you’re angry with him ( _aren’t you always?_ ) and running calmly would seem like indifference ( _it is, isn’t it?_ )

He always runs and rushes (but he’s never realised it, and every time you tell him he waves it off. He will never accept it, probably), because he’s run ever since you were eight.

_\- ‘He’s like a whirlwind,’ you hear a professor say in the hallways of the Academy and you slip into a classroom to listen. ‘Never stopping, always running, never listening. He’s bright, give you that, but rushing.’ And you hear the tone of disapproval but you don’t care because you know it’s true but one day things will be different, won’t they, Theta? -_

You won’t run. It’s too much like rushing.

You can’t rush.

You’re physically in _capable_ of rushing.

Not without him pulling you to the top of the mountains to show you just a single star that you can’t see from the bottom because of the light from the citadel, and then hauling you back down again in a race. You play along to humour him. It’s not a competition, not really. He always wins.

__

\- ‘You two are fiercely competitive. I don’t think it’s good for him.’ It’s not true. You’re not competitive. He _is. But you just nod and stare and walk away to sit at the top of the hill and… observe. You’re not waiting. You don’t need him. Not really. -_  


~*~

You meet him halfway, him and you, and you and him, and his lips are on yours the moment you reach him a bit more up your end halfway because he rushed. And you meet him a bit more up his end halfway because he walked.

You think the kiss is like melody and stars.

But you think it’s like fire and smoke.

You pull away and walk back down while he walks up to the top of the hill and waits.

You both turn around halfway to your respective destinations, Koschei swapping with Theta and Theta with Koschei.

‘You always run away, you know.’ You say to him, the thing you wanted to say but didn’t. 

‘You always win, you know.’ You yell back at him.

Neither of you hear the other’s words.

You walk to the top of the hill where your best friend, Koschei, sat before. _‘Never stop running!’_ Says the voice, the voice that sounds like the Schism in the back of your mind. You push it down.

…You walk to the citadel at the bottom of the hill where Theta stood. ‘Win! Win! Conquer and win! Conquer and win! Conquer and win!’ The Schism is screaming at you from the depths of your mind but you can barely hear it. You just push your fingers into the dirt in a rhythm. Da da da dum.

You sit on your heels at the bottom of the hill without looking at your friend as he stares out at the Death Zone.

Tomorrow you’ll graduate and start travelling off-world together.

…And it will be good, won’t it, Koschei?

…It always is, isn’t it, Theta?


End file.
